


Laconic Lassitude

by Cristinuke



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Feelings, Flashbacks, Frottage, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Panic Attacks, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, don't look too hard at the time line, no one knows how to deal with anything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-27
Updated: 2014-12-27
Packaged: 2018-03-03 17:50:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2859629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cristinuke/pseuds/Cristinuke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint Barton and Bucky Barnes just wanted everyone to leave them alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Laconic Lassitude

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nonymos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nonymos/gifts).



> I wrote this as a Christmas gift to the amazing and wonderful Nonymos. Thank you to Nony for giving me a prompt that I then vaguely attempted to follow.

A knock sounded at his door, and the implications behind that knock made him want to bury his head deeper into his pillow. With eyes shut tight, Clint mumbled, "Go away." He wasn't in the mood for it today, and just wanted the world to leave him alone.

Naturally, the world didn't give a fuck about what Clint Barton wanted.

So that was how Clint found himself being dragged, almost literally, out of bed and shoved out his door, down the hallway, into the elevator and out the garage, to be sitting uncomfortably in the car on his way to his therapy appointment. Clint almost wished Natasha had used more force on him, instead of the gentle nudges and looks that generally made him do her bidding of late. He was too tired of fighting against her, but he didn't want to be treated like a fragile, broken thing.

Clint absently realized that these kinds of thoughts were the kind that his therapist would sell her soul for if he were to say any of them out loud while in session. But Clint was a stubborn asshole, keeping his mouth tightly shut and never saying a word. He was tired of people messing around his head. He didn't want anyone in there, not again. Not after…

"Clint?" Natasha spoke softly, and Clint hated that careful tone she had adopted around him. Clint raised his head to look at her, and then was hit with the realization that he was sitting on the sofa in the living room, the television on and muted in front, and Natasha sitting next to him, eyebrows pulled together in a look of concern.

Clint let out a shaky breath as his mind started to panicky sift through his most recent memories, trying to remember how he got here from his session. He had just been sitting in the boring old, office, so how did he end up here? He couldn't remember the session ending, or leaving the office, or getting back in the car, or the trip back to the tower, or going up the elevator, or, sitting down, or, or, _anything_.

"Clint, hey, breathe, it's okay." He could hear her voice, but it was distorted, like listening under water, and he couldn't quite get rid of the rushing sound in his ears, and his heart was beating too fast. Why couldn't he remember? He tried to speak, tried to open his mouth to force the words out, but nothing came out, nothing but a ragged groan ending with a pathetic whimper. Did he really just make that sound?

Natasha must have started panicking as well, because he heard her shouting, and then suddenly there were more people around, Clint could sense it, and then Coulson was there in front of him, hands warm on his clammy face, directing his gaze to him. Clint distantly realized he was breathing too fast, verging on hyperventilating, and he realized this wasn't going to convince anyone that he was fine, that he just wanted to be left alone, that he was okay, that he just needed space, that there were too many people, too many, too many, people, speaking, saying…shouting… _stop it_ , please, _go away_ , just, go _away_. He's too tired, too tired of everyone, _talking_ , and wanting _him_ to talk, and just stop it, please.

The world tinged grey for a while.

*

The next thing Clint was aware of, he was in his bed again, warm under the covers and the mostly dark room. His head ached, but it was the low grade soreness that he'd gotten used to in the past couple of months. Clint didn't want to open his eyes, but he did it anyway, blinking away the grogginess that Clint had come to associate with the mild sedative that the others generally ended up using on him when his panic attacks got too out of control. Bruce was going to have a field day, Clint thought miserably, because he seemed to be the only one on the team that thought sedating a man during a panic attack was a bad idea.

Clint didn't blame them, though, because he knew from past experience that if he didn't get his panic attacks under control, then people tended to get hurt, including himself. The rest of the team had collectively decided that knocking Clint out was the lesser of the two evils after Natasha had to spend a weekend in the hospital, nursing broken ribs, a concussion and a bruised trachea. Clint still hasn't stopped blaming himself for that.

For that, and pretty much everything else.

His eyesight cleared enough in the dim light to make out a shadow sitting in his armchair across the room. He knew, instinctively, that it was Coulson, and Clint wanted to turn away, pull the covers up over his head and ignore the world, and in return, be ignored. But like always, he had to know.

"Damage report?" Clint's voice was rough and his throat felt scratchy. He wondered why he couldn't remember screaming.

Coulson sighed softly, like always. Clint knew that Coulson didn't blame him. For anything. Still, Clint couldn't get over the fact that he'd been directly responsible for his death and injury. He should have still been dead, had it not been for some convenient alien blood.

Coulson humored him, though, like always. "Scared Natasha pretty bad. She thought she'd triggered you."

Clint waited, knowing there was more. Coulson sighed again, and continued, "Managed to break Steve's cheekbone when he tried to help." _Restrain you_ , Clint heard. He would have been too far gone for help, and would have needed to be held down to apply the sedative. "He's healed since then, though. Last time I saw him, his black eye was already looking much better. Natasha…" Coulson hesitated for an uncharacteristic moment, "she decided to take a day off. She left a few hours ago with Maria for a girl's day up north, I think."

Clint nodded and closed his eyes. He didn't blame her. She'd taken it upon herself to make Clint her ward, of sorts, even though Clint begged her to treat him the same as always. But Natasha was out of her depth in this situation, and she didn't know how to take back control except to try and fix Clint the way she only knew how to. She, like everyone else, always ignored his pleas to be left alone to fend for himself.

After a bit of silence, Coulson spoke up again, "Clint…" Clint dragged his eyes open again, "What set you off?" _this time?_ Clint was getting good at hearing the underlying meanings of everyone's words.

Clint closed his eyes again, not wanting to see Coulson's pitying expression, even in the dark. "I couldn't remember how I got from therapy to the tower." _And then there were too many people. Too many people trying to get in my head again_.

Clint heard Coulson click his tongue in thought. "After your session, which I heard was similar to previous ones," _unresponsive and unproductive_ , "you rode back with Natasha. Happy drove. When you guys came back, we ate lunch. Spaghetti. Steve and Bucky's turn to cook. After that, Tony went back to his labs, Steve sketched for a while on the balcony, and Bucky went to his room, while you and Natasha decided to watch a movie. I was with Bruce in his lab when Jarvis informed us that we were needed upstairs. After we realized you weren't snapping out of it and started getting violent, Steve and I brought you down. Steve carried you back here." Early on, when they'd first started resorting to knocking Clint out, they decided to always bring Clint back to his room, so he'd wake up somewhere familiar and personal. It seemed to Clint that that was the best idea they'd had in a while, since it seemed to always work out marginally better than waking up elsewhere.

"Thanks." Clint mumbled, and he heard Coulson sigh again. He was doing a lot of sighing these days.

"Please don't thank me for this, Clint." Coulson begged. But Clint wasn't listening anymore. Instead, Clint turned around, facing away from Coulson and pulled the covers around himself tighter, wishing the world would go away. He heard Coulson sigh one more time before he heard the shuffle of feet and knew that Coulson was  finally leaving. He thought that Coulson might have said something before the door was closed, but Clint had stopped paying attention by then, willing himself to unconsciousness again, hoping that his nightmares would give him relief.

*

Clint woke up hungry, which was new. He hadn't had much of an appetite in a while, always eating whatever was put in front of him out of habit, but in a sudden fit of inspiration, Clint kicked off the covers and decided to go to the kitchen to eat something. He got up and stretched, the vague tendrils of last night's nightmare slipping away to wait for the next time. Clint heard some joints popping, and was pleasantly surprised by how good it felt. He made his way around the still-dark tower, and came to the conclusion that it was ridiculously early in the morning. That, at least, made the chances of him running into someone pretty slim. Tony was probably still awake, but he'd be in his lab. Natasha was out, Clint remembered with a grimace, and Bruce was probably asleep somewhere. That left Steve and Bucky, but before he could guess as to where they might be, he heard Steve's low voice coming from the kitchen up ahead of him.

Clint slowed down his pace until he was just out of sight from the kitchen.

"Bucky, c'mon, talk to me. I don't know how to help, if you don't tell me." Steve's voice was begging and sad, and Clint closed his eyes in sympathy for a moment. "Bucky, say something, c'mon. I'm so sorry, please. Just… _say_ something."

Clint felt heavy and guilty just listening in to what was clearly a personal moment, and he was just about to turn to leave when his traitorous stomach chose that precise moment to awaken with a loud growl. Steve's voice went silent, and Clint had enough time to curse himself before he heard a tentative, "Hello?"

If Clint left now, he'd hate himself even more than he already did, so he sheepishly stepped out and into the kitchen.

In front of him, Clint saw what had to be Bucky, sitting down at the kitchen table, facing away from him so that Clint couldn't see his expressions at all. Steve was kneeling in front of Bucky, hands clasped with Bucky's, and eyes ringed red with unshed tears. "Hey, Cap." Clint murmured softly. Bucky didn't move at all, but Steve sniffled once and got up, letting his hands slip from Bucky's limp ones, only to put a hand on Bucky's shoulder possessively.

"Hello Clint." Steve's voice was ragged, and Clint could see the faint bruises around his cheekbone and eye that signaled he was almost healed up from whatever Clint had done to him earlier. "Are you hungry?"

It was such an innocuous question that it threw Clint for a moment. "Umm, yeah, I woke up and wanted some food. But, umm, I can come back…?" Clint could feel his face heating up from the uncomfortable situation. Bucky still hadn't moved an inch.

Steve seemed to understand Clint's embarrassment, and looked down at Bucky's head, saying, "Bucky, umm. He kind of had a flashback? Anyway, he shut down on me, and I've been trying to bring him back, but…" Steve trailed off on his explanation, not certain of what else he was supposed to say.

Clint was relating to Steve in that regard, not knowing what to say either. Bucky was the other resident crazy in this already-messed-up tower, but Clint had hardly ever exchanged two words with the guy. He knew of him, and his connection with HYDRA, so he figured the man had some excuses to check out of reality for a bit every now and again. But if Steve thought Clint would have any insight on how to get his friend back, then he was sorely mistaken there. He'd have to get in line behind Natasha. Then they'd both be in the wrong line together.

"Sorry, Cap." Clint offered, wincing at how unhelpful he sounded. The brief appetite that he'd managed to obtain had left him, making his stomach feel tight with emotions that Clint was too tired to parse through. He suddenly wanted to be back in his bed, away from everything again. He was having a hard time remembering why he'd wanted to come out in the first place.

Steve seemed too preoccupied to deal with Clint's sudden change of heart as he looked absently down at Bucky's head. Bucky's hair was long and a bit greasy, as if he'd forgotten to wash a couple days. Clint knew that sentiment all too well, and didn't fault him for not having the energy to get up and do something as monumental as taking a shower. Maybe showers were what caused some flashbacks, who knew? Clint wasn't going to judge if someone spooked at a bit of water, or the way that the shower stall might be too small, and how it'd make someone feel like the walls were closing in, and that they couldn't escape, or move, and then they'd hear laughter echo clearly against the tiles and water would fill their mouth, and they'd try to breathe, to scream, to beg, to cry, but _he'd_ just laugh, over and over, playing you like a puppet, forcing you down, down _, down_ , and then,-

Clint was shaking.

The silence was stretching too long, and Clint had to get a grip on himself and stop projecting his thoughts, stop _thinking_ , _just_ _stop_ , so that he didn't fall into another panic attack.  Clint gave a hasty retreat, mumbling an approximation of a goodbye and escaping as fast as he could, not bothering to look behind him at the sad duo in the kitchen.

By the time he got back to his room, Clint was panting hard and trying to keep his thoughts and memories at bay. He closed the door behind him and then slid down it, only to hunch in over himself tightly, trying to keep himself from shaking apart.

The sun had risen high into the sky by the time Clint felt sure enough that he wasn't going to fall back down into another nightmare of a flashback. He didn't move from his spot on the floor, regardless of how uncomfortable and sore he was, for fear that his tentative reprieve would shatter. He let out a defeated sigh, though, when he heard the inevitable knock on his door, and knew that he couldn't hide anymore. It wasn't Natasha's soft knock, though, since she wasn't here. It had to be Coulson or Bruce, hesitant in waking up Clint to help him go to his therapy session.

" _Go away_." Clint whispered low enough that it wouldn't carry.

*

Clint made an effort to remember everything today. He mentally pointed out markers so that he could go back in his memory and find any proof that he might need. He didn't want to lose time again, because those were always rough days. Not that any of the other days were much better.

He carefully listened to his therapist talk about healing processes and moving on, but even with his intent to be present all day, he still couldn't help but tune her out. He refused to open his mouth and spill secrets from his lips; these weren't secrets that were meant to be shared. He wouldn't do that to anyone else, not if he could help it. They didn't deserve to be hurt like that.

Clint forcibly snapped himself back to reality when the hour was up, and he walked out into the lobby to where Bruce was waiting for him. Clint felt a pang of guilt when he saw him, because there was no reason for him to take precious time out of his life to come babysit Clint's pathetic self. But Bruce just smiled when he looked up and saw Clint. It was one of his small smiles, tinged with sadness, the kind that everyone seemed to wear around Clint. But at least Clint knew that most of Bruce's smiles were like that, even to the others. It made Clint feel better, just a bit.

Clint asked Bruce to talk about what he's been working on in the lab when they were in the car, and if Bruce expressed a look of surprise at Clint's initiation at a conversation, then Clint ignored it and waited until Bruce tentatively started explaining some breakthroughs that Bruce was nearly on the verge of making with some experiments he was doing. The majority of the conversation went right over Clint's head, but Bruce was smiling brighter, the sad look melting away slightly, so Clint considered it a success.

By the time they reached the tower, Clint had started to lose thread of the conversation, his focus giving up. Bruce seemed to understand that Clint was hitting his limit, so he was silent the whole elevator ride up. It didn't feel like an awkward silence, though, so Clint was grateful for that.

"Will you stay and have lunch with me?" Bruce asked carefully when Jarvis brought them to the main floor. He looked hopeful, like he was wishing that this could be a turning point for Clint, and Clint didn't have the heart to tell him no, even though it wasn't for the reasons that Bruce was thinking. Bruce led him into the kitchen, and asked if Clint had a preference for lunch. Clint shook his head and made his way to sit on a stool on the other side of the island where Bruce was pulling out pots and pans. He told Clint he'll just make a vegetarian lasagna, and looked at Clint for confirmation. Clint shrugged and pulled an apple and an orange from the overflowing fruit bowl in the middle of the island, only to roll them around aimlessly.

While Bruce started on boiling water and taking out the necessary ingredients, Tony ambled in to the kitchen, looking tired, but alert. The smell of cooking seemed to perk him up, and after a cursory nod at Clint, he immediately struck up a conversation with Bruce about the finer points of biochemistry and the effects of its integration with various metal alloys. Clint had no hope of following the conversation, so he tuned out of it, focusing on rolling the fruits. Eventually, he pulled another apple from the bowl, and began to stack the fruits on top of each other. The apples were easy enough, but once he tried to add in the orange, it became an interesting challenge. He'd gotten five fruits stacked up by the time Steve entered the kitchen, followed by Bucky, who looked much more aware than the previous night.

Clint didn't bother to greet the newcomers, despite Steve's obvious attempts at making eye contact. When the attempted interaction failed, Steve simply went over to see if he could help Bruce. Tony hadn't stopped talking and looked like he'd gotten tired of moving around, following Bruce who went from stove to oven to fridge and back, so Tony ended up jumping up on the counter to continue his conversation from there. Bruce quietly delegated a task to Steve and the three of them painted a weird, domestic picture as they moved around and interacted with each other.

The only people out of place were Clint and Bucky. Clint was about to put the sixth piece of  fruit on his stack when suddenly, they all came tumbling down due to a tiny earthquake. Clint turned to glare at Bucky, whose metal arm was lying inconspicuously on top of the island as he swung himself onto a stool a couple feet away from Clint. Clint knew that that arm pack a punch, and was way heavier than it looked, but his glare went unanswered as Bucky completely ignored him in favor of stabbing one of the spilled fruits that had rolled towards him with a knife that had appeared out of thin air. Clint watched as Bucky raised the impaled apple to his lips and took a bite out of it, and Clint wasn't even annoyed anymore.

"Bucky, we're going to be eating in a just a little bit, you know." Steve mentioned from the other side of the kitchen where he was stirring a sauce. Bucky's response was to take another big bite of his apple, and if it sounded particularly crunchy, then Clint was probably just imagining things. Steve gave a small sigh and went back to talking with Tony about something; Clint hadn't realized that the conversation had changed.

Clint gathered the fallen fruit and after giving a pointed look towards Bucky, who ignored him completely, he grabbed a couple more fruits from the bowl and began his tower again. He managed to stack the oranges up, and then the apples on either side, and with special care, he placed two bananas atop the towers, to create an epic towering bridge of fruit. Because of all the hard work and effort that Clint put into his project, he was utterly shocked when he saw Bucky purposefully smack his metal arm down onto the island, creating the ripple effect intended to knock down his creation.

This time, when Clint looked over, Bucky was smirking, but still refusing to look at Clint.

"You little shit." Clint stated, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards in amusement. Bucky gave a snort of laughter in response, but still resolutely faced ahead.

Clint was still almost smiling when he suddenly realized that there was silence in the kitchen. When he looked up, Clint saw Bruce, Steve and even Tony watching the two of them with too much intensity, shock clear on their faces. It unnerved Clint, to have that much focus on him, and it clearly unnerved Bucky, who jumped off the stool, saying, "I'm not hungry anymore," and turning around to head out the room. Steve, with a surprised look on his face, shook himself out of it, and started calling out to Bucky, giving an apologetic look to Bruce before following Bucky out the door.

Clint looked back at Bruce and Tony, who were still staring at him. Clint nearly bolted when Tony opened his mouth to make a comment, but then Bruce, bless his soul, understood Clint's situation and caught Tony's attention, saying, "Can you hand me the salt, Tony, please?"

Tony closed his mouth, but kept staring at Clint for a moment longer before finally dragging his gaze back to Bruce and joining in, saying, "Brucie-bear, you should know me better than that. I don't hand things to people, people don't hand things to me, what part of that concept do you not understand, dear?" He kept rolling on with what was essentially a monologue as Bruce finished cleaning up the kitchen. They were just waiting a few more minutes for the lasagna to finish cooking, so Clint hesitantly went back to picking up the fruit that had fallen. He'd lost interest, though, and simply put the fruit back in their bowl, deciding to just lay his head down in top of his crossed arms on the island while he waited. The familiar feeling of emptiness was creeping back in, and Clint was left wondering when it had disappeared in the first place. He wasn't hungry either, anymore, but Bruce had asked him to stay, so Clint did. He forced himself to stay in the present again, when he noticed that he kept drifting.

The lasagna tasted like ash in his mouth, but Clint told Bruce how much he loved it.

*

The next time Clint saw Bucky, he wondered if Steve ever left his side, or if he was some sort of permanent fixture in his life. Buy one, get one free, kind of deal.

They were all in the gym, Steve and Bucky on the mats, sparring. Or at least, attempting to spar. From what Clint saw, Steve was pulling punches left and right, and Bucky was humoring him with weak feints and unenthusiastic swings. They looked like they were play-fighting but, based on the tension in the room, it wasn't a mutual agreement of fun.

Natasha had come back from her spa, or vacation, whatever she was calling it, with Maria earlier in the morning. She had a bright smile on her face that looked just a little bit less forced than usual when she saw Clint for the first time. She then asked Clint if he would accompany her to the gym to work out, maybe even spar a little bit. Clint doubted they'd get that far, but he was still feeling guilty for essentially driving her away, so he had agreed, following her down to the right floor.

Natasha steered them to the empty side of the mat, opposite where Steve and Bucky were, and immediately started warming up, stretching her body into impossible positions. Clint half-heartedly followed suit, wincing as he realized just how out of shape he'd gotten. He hadn't really exercised since…since the battle. Between being locked up in the brig after some SHIELD operatives found them in a shawarma restaurant, his stint in a psychiatric hospital while they performed countless tests on him, and his inevitable spiral down when he'd been released (rescued, more like, according to the other Avengers who didn't take kindly to him being locked away, even though that was the kindest punishment Clint could think of), Clint hadn't really had many opportunities, or will, to do something as mundane as exercise. Obviously, Natasha had caught on to this, and was attempting to rectify this issue.

So Clint humored her, and flopped down on the mat, bending over to stretch complaining muscles. He wasn't really putting any effort into it, though, and his eyes wandered around the room, only to focus on Steve and Bucky's sad attempt of a sparring match. At one point, though, Clint realized that Bucky kept glancing over to where Clint and Natasha were, and just as Clint started wondering as to why, Bucky's inattention caused him to miss the opportunity to block Steve's punch to his face.

"Oh my god, Bucky, I'm so sorry, I thought you saw it coming, I didn't mean to hit you, are you alright? Do you need me to get the first aid? Natasha, where do we keep the first aid?" Steve's frantic fawning over Bucky seemed to get more and more frenzied, hands hovering over Bucky, who simply wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

"It was about damn time you got in a hit, Rogers." Bucky stated, bringing his hands up in a defense position, body shifting from foot to foot, and almost bouncing with readiness. He was rearing up for another round and didn't seem to mind the slight red smear of blood on his chin as his body tensed and relaxed in preparation.

Steve, on the other hand, seemed absolutely mortified by the red smear of blood on Bucky's face and on the back of his hand. "Bucky, I just _punched you in the face_. You're bleeding! You need first aid, and, and I can't believe I just _punched_ you like that, I'm so sorry. If you think I'm going to go another round, then you…" Steve kept going on and on, but then Clint saw the way Bucky's body seemed to deflate before his very eyes. His stance grew rigid, and then he slumped over in clear irritation.

Clint felt bad for the guy. He was obviously tired of being treated like a fragile, porcelain object.

Then, Bucky turned his head, ignoring Steve, and looked straight at Clint with the most apathetic look on his face that screamed he was absolutely done with this shit. It reminded Clint so much of the unimpressed looks that the characters from _The Office_ gave the camera when something ridiculous was happening around them, that Clint gave a sudden bark of laughter, surprising himself.

Apparently, he surprised everyone else as well, because Steve cut himself off from whatever other nonsense he was about to say, to turn his head towards Clint, mouth agape and eyes wide open. Clint shut his expression off immediately, and turned back to his mat, looking over to see if Natasha was ready to go, but when he made eye contact with her, he saw that she had on a look of total disbelief and shock on her face.

Clint wanted to roll his eyes, but he felt too heavy, the creeping feeling of being watched working fast to bring him down. Clint struggled with himself, trying to hold on; he didn't really want to slip down again so soon, and he owed Natasha some time, so he took in several deep breaths to calm himself. With a monumental strength he didn't think he had, Clint pointedly ignored the eyes on him and gritted out, "Didn't you want to spar?"

Natasha was still reeling from her surprise, but she got it under control in record time. "Yes, are you ready?" She asked, carefully bland, as she stood up gracefully. She extended a hand towards Clint, but he couldn't make himself reach out to her and take it, instead lifting himself up from the floor awkwardly.

Clint caught a flash of hurt flicker across Natasha's features before she schooled her expression into something bland. Again. Clint mentally added another reason to feel guilty on his growing stack. With a head shake, he moved onto the mat and waited for Natasha to get into position.

When he turned his head back to look to see where Steve and Bucky were, he saw that Bucky was gathering his stuff into a duffle bag, his body posture closed off. Steve was hovering too close around Bucky, still talking to him in a low, and hurried voice. Clint could just make out more apologies and urges to get his face looked at, before Bucky snapped at Steve, saying, "I'm _fine_. Just leave it alone." He stormed off, swinging his duffle bag over his shoulder.

Steve spluttered out a faint, "Wait! Bucky…" before grabbing his stuff and running after him.

Then it was silent in the gym.

Clint turned back to see Natasha waiting patiently with a curious and concerned look on her face. If Clint didn't get to start punching things soon, he was going to storm out of here too.

Luckily, Natasha didn't hold back as much as Steve did. Barely.

*

 _Game Night_ was an idea, ill-conceived by Coulson, to try and attempt to bring the team together in fun and friendly competition and comradery that supposedly would create deeper friendships between the Avengers. _Game Night_ would be held at least once a month, and everyone was "strongly advised" to show up. Tony Stark tried bailing one time, but that didn't end well. Coulson didn't make idle threats about tasing, it turned out, and ever since then, everyone had grudgingly accepted that this was just something they had to bear through. Eventually, most of the team came to like and appreciate those nights, claiming that it was the one night that they could really relax and just enjoy life.

Clint hated it.

It was too many people talking at once, arguing over rules of games, and whose turn it was, and which version of the game they were playing. Clint could tell that everyone else was enjoying the playful tension, but to Clint, it was real tension that he couldn't shake off. He tried to will himself to just breathe and get through the game. Monopoly wasn't that difficult, and contrary to popular belief, the team wasn't growing to resent each other. If anything, people were surprised by the fact that it wasn't Tony who was winning, but rather, _Bruce_. Everyone was having a great time.

Clint was barely holding on to his sanity.

He really didn't want to have a panic attack on _Game Night_ , because that would just ruin it for everyone else, but he could feel himself slipping. He was even losing some time, and he knew the others were verging on the point of just skipping his turn every time he checked out.

It was growing, though, the feeling of claustrophobia and too much noise, too many voices and too much laughter, and Clint was drowning, trying to stay present and coherent. He desperately checked for every exit, planning on making a fast getaway, but everything was blocked, and he wouldn't be able to get away without making a scene, but he needed to, or else he was going to ruin everything, and god, they really didn't deserve to deal with his shit, and,-

Clint's searching eyes landed on Bucky's face for a moment, but it was enough to see that he was looking back at him. It steadied Clint, just a little bit, because Bucky's gaze seemed to know exactly what was going on in Clint's head.

Very deliberately, Bucky raised one eyebrow and he cocked his head to the left, in an expression that very clearly said, _wanna get out of here?_

Clint's eyes flickered in the direction that Bucky was indicating, and he realized that Tony had moved over to be closer to Bruce in order to argue over something, leaving a space wide open to escape through with minimum disturbance. Clint looked back at Bucky who was patiently waiting, and very clearly gave a nod, _yes_.

With that, Bucky stood up from the couch, where he was sitting next to Steve. Steve noticed, of course, but before he could open his mouth to ask where Bucky was going, Bucky simply shook his empty beer bottle in front of Steve, saying, "I got it. Play for me if I'm not back in time."

Steve looked concerned, but Bucky's argument was solid, so he simply nodded slowly. Bucky moved away, and it wasn't until he was behind Steve, that Steve brought his attention back to the game.

Clint watched as Bucky left the room, and then got up himself. He felt Natasha's slim fingers brush against his wrist, so he turned to her and forced a small smile that probably looked more like a grimace. "Gotta take a leak."

Natasha's fingers wrapped around his wrist, and squeezed, just once, before retracting her hand back. Clint moved around the others, until he was out the same door Bucky had gone through, and he no longer felt Natasha's gaze on him.

Bucky was waiting just on the other side of the door but took off as soon as he caught sight of Clint. Clint followed him out of instinct, down the hallway and down some stairs. They turned down another hallway, and then another one, and finally went through a door that brought them into the library.

It was a really impressive library, Clint thought. There had to be thousands and thousands of books in here. Clint wondered how many of the books Tony had actually read, but his thoughts were interrupted when he saw Bucky kept moving, going around shelves and down others. Eventually, Bucky stopped in front of one shelf and Clint came to a halt behind him, curious as to why they had stopped. Curious as to where Bucky was taking them, really. Clint hardly knew the guy, and yet here he was, following him blindly into a library.

Clint got one of his answers when Bucky took one step and suddenly disappeared.

"Bucky?" Clint called out, fear bleeding into his voice. What the hell, what the hell, what the _hell_ ,-

"I'm right here." Clint heard Bucky's voice, but it was coming directly from in front of him, where the shelf of books was. Clint cocked his head to the side in confusion.

"Where?"

"Keep walking." Came the reply. _Keep walking_? If he did that, Clint would run straight into the shelf. But again, some weird form of trust, or something, spurred Clint into talking a step forward, and suddenly he could see what he couldn't before.

The shelves were place in such a way that they were covering a very narrow alleyway that led somewhere else. Clint could see Bucky, squeezed in between the two shelves, looking at him expectedly.

"Coming?" Bucky asked, sounding bored, before he turned his head forward and moved down the alleyway until he took a turn and disappeared again. Clint took a step back, and was amazed by how just simple placement could conceal something so big. Then he took a step forward and squeezed himself in between the two shelves, moving forward until he saw there was an opening on the right. He went through it and stopped, amazed by what he saw.

The space wasn't very big. It seemed more like a nook or a type of alcove that had been forgotten about when the shelves were first put in on the floor, but it wasn't forgotten about now. Bucky, it seemed, had found this mini-haven and filled it with beanbags and blankets. The light that came in, was the artificial light from the rest of the library, but it was filtered through the books and shelves, giving the space a dim look.

It was cozy.

Clint took in the small space and realized that Bucky was curled up on one beanbag, his metal arm wrapped around his knees protectively. Clint suddenly felt a dizzying wave of gratitude towards Bucky. This was obviously a very personal space that Bucky had cultivated to escape to when he needed, and he was sharing it with Clint, a guy he'd barely said two words to in the months that they'd lived together.

Clint felt very self-conscious as he gestured to an empty beanbag and mumbled, "Can I?" Bucky gave him another unimpressed look that did something to unfurl the tight tension in Clint's stomach.

With bated breath, Clint lowered himself into the beanbag and he found it easy to curl in on himself. He let go of the breath he was holding in, when the beanbag seemed to envelop him in its embrace, keeping him secure and offering a gentle cushioning. It didn't take a lot of shuffling and shimming before Clint found the perfect position. Clint could feel tension melting out of him as he laid there, in the silence of the library, surrounded by warm, dark light and feeling the protection of shelves of books that shielded him from the outside.

Clint looked at Bucky and offered a small, genuine smile of thanks. Thanks for allowing him to come in here, and thanks for knowing that he'd needed it.

Bucky just rolled his eyes and tipped his head back. With his human arm, he reached behind him to grab a book that was lying down on the floor, opened to a particular page number. Clint assumed it was where he'd left off from the last time he'd been here. Bucky shifted around and found a new position before settling down with the book in his lap and he started to read in the dim light.

Clint breathed in and realized he wasn't feeling as tight as he usually did. He felt loose and relaxed in the companionable silence, something that he hadn't felt in a really long time.

Before he knew it, his eyes had slipped closed.

*

The next thing Clint knew, he was waking up from the throes of a vicious nightmare, limbs flailing in a trap and mind racing, already halfway through a panic attack when he realized he had no idea where he is. The fact that he hadn't woken up away from his room, or at least a familiar location, in many weeks was just adding to the disorientation, and Clint was finding it really difficult to breathe.

After a few moments of desperate gasping, Clint started remembering fragments of memories, of game pieces, and an impossible hallway and the dark safety of an unknown hideaway. Of Bucky, and his comfortable silence.

But Bucky wasn't here anymore, Clint immediately catalogued.

Slowly, Clint's heart slowed down to a more manageable pace, and Clint could breathe easy again as he took in his surroundings, and realized that he had simply fallen asleep on the bean bag in this corner of the library. As he came to himself, he looked down and saw that he wasn't trapped in anything but a simple, thin blanket that Bucky must have thrown over him to help keep him warm.

It took less than fifteen seconds to disentangle himself from the cheap fabric, and then Clint was standing up and stretching a little bit, working the kinks out of his stiff muscles. He really shouldn't have curled up like that for so long.

Clint's internal clock told him it must have been early in the morning, and when he shimmied his way out of the secret room and into the rest of the library, he could see that most of the lights were off, and the sky outside the windows was very dark.

Clint didn't bother turning on any lights as he made his way through the tower and up some stairs to his floor.

Clint sat on his bed and watched the sun rise without actually seeing anything.

*

Clint broke Natasha's left pinky and ring fingers during his next full-blown panic attack. They were watching a stupid, normal, romance chick flick that was supposed to be safe for Clint, but then the lead male started talking about "hearts" and all Clint heard, on a loop was, _you have heart, you have heart,_ and then he was struggling to break free from his mental prison, desperate to get out again, and trying not to be crushed under the weight of his complete helplessness.

It turned out he'd just been struggling against Natasha who had screamed for reinforcement and got it in the shape of Steve and Bucky rushing in, with Steve holding him down and sedating him while Natasha broke a little more on the inside.

*

Sometimes the whole team had dinner together, and those events were usually chaotic to the extreme, but in a domestic, homely kind of way. Tonight, Natasha was cooking, with the help of Coulson, and everyone was very curious to try the Russian dish that was slowly becoming the best thing any of them had ever smelled.

It was Clint's favorite dish that Natasha could make; she made it for him once after a long, hard assignment in Siberia and the cold had reminded her of her home country, so she had decided to make the one thing she liked doing while in the Red Room. If Clint hadn't fallen in love by then, then that dish was the cincher.

Clint knew she was making it now to try and make Clint happy, and for the most part, he was. At least, he was as happy as he could manage these days, which wasn't much. But he forced himself to smile and he made sure to pile his plate up with extra food, even though his stomach was in knots, and he knew there was no way he was going to make the night without throwing up everything he put in his mouth.

Still, the pleased expression on Natasha's face was worth it. Almost.

It would have been worth it, had it not been for the headache that was growing at the base of Clint's skull from all the chatter around the room. Everyone was there, Natasha, Bruce, Coulson, Tony, Pepper, Steve, Bucky, and even Rhodey and Maria Hill. There were conversations all around Clint, and he was having difficulty following just one.

But as difficult of a time Clint was having, he seemed to be faring better than Bucky, who was across the big table from Clint, looking agitated and ready to bolt. Clint knew how much Steve had begged Bucky to stay throughout dinner, but Clint also knew that if Bucky didn't leave soon, they were going to have to deal with something more than just simple conversation. Bucky was fidgeting and glancing around in quiet nervousness, and Clint wondered how Steve was missing the fact that Bucky was absolutely miserable and ready to punch his way to safety.

Then Clint wondered how he was the only one who seemed to know.

He put it down to the fact that it was because of the increasingly exasperated looks that Bucky kept exchanging with Clint whenever his searching gaze landed on him. When the exasperation turned to desperation, Clint decided to help the poor guy out, and so he plastered on the best smile he could pull off,  took a deep breath and called out, "Steve!"

Nearly all conversations grinded to an immediate stop, as all heads turned to Clint in astonishment. Clint supposed he deserved that for never being the one to instigate any conversation. Ever.

Still, once Clint had Steve's attention, he asked cheerily, "What are the biggest differences between now and back in your old days?"

From somewhere on his right, he heard someone choking on their drink, and Clint assumed it was Tony. Steve, to his credit, smoothed out his shocked expression and hesitantly began to outline some of the differences that has really stood out to him between the two times. Clint forced himself to really pay attention, nodding and shrugging at all the right times as Steve moved the conversation towards the differences in food, and how he's been upset at the fact that bananas didn't quite taste the same as they used to.

During the conversation, the others slowly started picking up the threads from their previous chats, and soon, the level of noise was again rising to the right pitch to irritate Clint's headache. But his plan worked out the way he'd hoped; due to his uncharacteristic instigation at talking, Clint had achieved the desired effect of thoroughly distracting everyone from Bucky's silent slip away from the dinner table, and from the room.

With the success of the escape, and the sudden lack of eye contact with someone who knew what Clint was feeling like, the dinner table was soon getting to be too much for Clint, and after a few more minutes where he knew he'd finally lost track of Steve's story, Clint closed off his expression, enjoying the small relief of not having to force his face into smiling anymore, and announced that he was full and going to bed.

Steve looked startled at the rapid change of pace, but Clint was already pushing out of his chair and leaving, not bothering to react to Natasha and Coulson's calls after him.

Once he was in the hallway, Clint breathed out heavily. When he lifted his head and looked around, he saw Bucky at the end of the hallway, waiting for him. Without thinking about it, Clint immediately started after him, and before he could reach him, Bucky turned and walked off in a different direction than Clint had been expecting. But he followed anyway, reveling in the growing silence between them, and the way that Clint's headache seemed to ebb.

After a few minutes of walking, Bucky stopped in front of a door that Clint assumed to hold a supply closet beyond it. But when Bucky opened the door and disappeared inside, Clint realized that while it was, indeed, a supply closet, it had been transformed into a nice little nest. There wasn't another word Clint could use to describe it. Somehow, Bucky had fit three loveseats and a beanbag into the small space and had arranged them around so that it created a warm, cozy little nest, surrounded by blankets and pillows. A single, exposed light bulb cast a warm glow to the whole space.

Bucky immediately jumped over the back of one of the loveseats and, grabbing a blanket, he settled down, looking very comfortable. Clint followed suit after closing the door behind. He lifted himself over the loveseat across from Bucky and grabbed a few pillows to surround himself with.

Once Clint was satisfied with his new position, Bucky reached over to a small bedside table behind the third loveseat and fiddled with an old-school radio that was resting there. Soon, Bucky found the station that he wanted, and soft oldies music filled the little space.

It was comfortable.

There was no pressure to talk, or make conversation, and the soft, old music was slowly wiping away Clint's headache completely, until Clint just felt warm and relaxed. They were pretty much just chilling, and Clint was amazed that of all the people in world to chill with, he was with the former Winter Soldier. Clint didn't even question his life anymore at this point.

They must have been there for a few hours, before Bucky eventually pushed off the blankets and stretched, lifting himself up and off of the loveseat and cracking his back. He seemed to be sore around the metal arm, his opposite flesh arm coming up to pull at his left shoulder where the metal and flesh meet. But then, Bucky looked back at Clint and gave him a sloppy salute before winking and leaving Clint alone in the tiny room with soft music for company.

Clint wanted to stay here forever, but he became too self-conscious, staying in what was essentially Bucky's space, without him. Even if Bucky did show him the place, and left him here, it just didn't sit right with Clint, so he got up and left the room, taking special care to turn off the radio and switch off the light before closing the door behind him.

Back in his room, Clint felt cold, compared to how he'd been before.

*

Somehow, over the next few weeks, Clint and Bucky had created their own secret language without Clint realizing it. It consisted of looks and expressions, things that meant _I need space and quiet_ , or _I can't take this anymore,_ or _I'm about to murder someone if I don't get out of here_ , and the other always seemed to understand and figure out a way to get them out of whatever situation they were in. Most of the time, those situations consisted of Steve or Natasha or Coulson, or any of the others, hovering too closely or asking too many questions, or expecting too much from them, and they just needed to be left alone for a bit. Nearly every time that Clint came back from his therapy sessions, Bucky seemed to find him and understand his need to be surrounded by complete silence for a while. And Clint seemed to always know that meals tended to be hard for Bucky, so he'd create a way for Bucky to escape. On those occasions, Clint would try his best to follow Bucky, bringing along a little bit of the food they were eating, if he could. He'd then lay it out near where Bucky would sit or curl up, and sometimes Bucky would reach out and eat the food, and other times the food was left untouched.

Clint was surprised by how well, how intimately, they always seemed to understand each other, and how _comfortable_ they felt when they were together. There was never any pressure or tension, and Clint tried not to think about why it worked so well, only that it did.

*

They hardly ever talked.

That was part of the allure of spending time together, but strangely enough, Clint wasn't bothered by the few times that they did talk about something other than casual comments.

They were in the library, both of them having a bad day after they fell into and came out of a flashback, respectively, when Bucky's gaze landed on Clint. Clint noticed, taking in the wide eyes and wild, desperate expression, and distantly wondered if Bucky was seeing the same thing reflected in his eyes.

"You hear voices in your head, don't you?" Bucky asked hesitantly.

Clint thought of _his_ voice, laughing, screaming, taunting. Clint said nothing.

"I do too." Bucky continued, unperturbed by Clint's non-response. "Sometimes I'll hear their voices, the people who worked on me, or who ordered me around." Bucky's expression darkened and Clint thought that  he finally understood why he had been called the Winter Soldier. "But they are nothing compared to the two voices that are constantly at war in my head." Bucky was now staring at the midpoint between him and Clint, not really seeing anything. "And I don't know which voice is mine."

Clint looked at him and thought about that. Bucky had been made and remade so many times until he didn’t know who he was anymore. Except, that was a lie. He knew exactly who he was, because they made him into the Winter Soldier.

Then he had started remembering.

It was fragments at first, Clint knew. Feelings and flashes of memory. But over time, while Steve hunted him down, more and more of those memories seemed to come back to him, until he remembered enough, or was tired enough, and let Steve catch up with him. The person Steve found wasn't quite the Winter Soldier he had fought on the helicarrier, and he wasn't quite the friend that Steve had grown up with. He was some sort of weird mesh between the two of them, so of course Bucky didn't know which voice was really his. He had both the Winter Soldier's and James Buchannan Barnes' voices floating around in his head.

"I want one of them gone." Bucky gritted out bitterly. "I want one of them dead."

Clint could relate to wanting to silence the voice in his head. He couldn't begin to imagine, however, not knowing which of those voices to kill, and which one was the one he wanted to save. Clint at least knew which voice he wanted gone.

And that, Clint realized, was the predicament Bucky was faced with; which voice should he let win, and which voice should he smother and force to disappear?

They didn't share another word for the rest of the night.

*

One day, the Avengers were called out for some routine test. Clint had just had a rough morning and it was mutually agreed that he would sit this one out. Bucky wasn't technically on the roster, so he stayed behind as well.

Clint was lying down in his bed, trying to block out fragmented memories when Jarvis started addressing him in a rather concerned tone, "Agent Barton, it would seem that Sergeant Barnes is in need of your assistance."

Clint lifted his head, looking up at the ceiling. "Bucky? Why? Where is he?"

Clint pushed himself out of bed and tugged on a shirt as Jarvis informed him, "Sergeant Barnes' vitals seem to be at an extreme low, and he is not responding to advice or questions. He is currently immobile in Captain Rogers' quarters, in the bathroom."

"Fuck," cursed Clint, as he took off at a run. Fear and adrenaline started pumping through his veins as he made his way towards Steve and Bucky's rooms, and he really hoped he wasn't about to find a dead body.

Clint pushed the thought out of his mind immediately, because he didn't think he could deal with the death of the one person who had somehow connected with Clint in a way he didn't think anyone else could.

He pushed his way through the door, running towards the back where he assumed the bathroom was, and skidded to halt when he reached the door. He heard the shower running, and was about to sigh in relief at the thought that maybe Bucky just couldn't hear Jarvis, when he opened the door.

Clint's eyes immediately narrowed on Bucky, in the corner of the shower, and his heart sank. Bucky was slouched against the wall and splayed out across the tiled floor. He was completely catatonic, empty eyes gazing out at nothing as the water ran over his clothed body. Clint rushed forward when he realized that Bucky's lips were an alarming shade of blue, and the moment he touched Bucky's shoulder and felt the water, he hissed and snapped his hand back in surprise.

It was freezing.

"What the fuck? Jarvis, why didn't you shut down the water?" Clint gasped out as he reached up to grab the handle and turn off the stream.

"My apologies, sir, but everything in Captain Rogers' quarters is set to manual." The AI even sounded apologetic.

Clint turned his attention back to Bucky and pressed his fingers to his throat, checking his pulse. It was there, but it was thready and slow.

"Hey, Bucky, c'mon, we gotta get you warm." Clint tried to get a reaction. Bucky didn't acknowledge anything, and the fact that he wasn't even shivering when Clint was just starting to, was worrisome to an extreme. "Bucky, dude, you gotta snap out of it." Clint shook him a little bit, but it had no effect. Bucky's skin was way too pale to be healthy, and Clint knew that if he didn't get Bucky warm, the guy was going to suffer from hypothermia soon.

Finally, hating himself, Clint brought his hand back and swung hard, slapping Bucky across the face. In the  following second, Clint feared that he may have just triggered the Winter Soldier, or at the very least, hurt a fucked up person he actually cared about, but then he heard a loud gasp and got a full body shudder from Bucky.

The gasping continued as Bucky was snapped out of it, and started shivering. His tremors grew more and more violent as he started looking around wildly, looking like a maniac with his wheezing breaths, and his long hair flinging droplets of water everywhere.

"Hey, hey, what the _hell_ were you thinking?!" Clint snapped at him as he grabbed Bucky's face and forced him to look at him. Bucky's eyes darted back and forth around the room in complete disorientation until he finally seemed to come to some awareness and recognized Clint.

Once Clint could tell that Bucky was tracking again, he started pulling up Bucky's soaked shirt, knowing he needed to get Bucky warm fast. Bucky started mumbling through his increasing panting as he let himself be manhandled.

"I j-just, just w-wanted t-t-to…" Bucky was gritting out each word through chattering teeth, and Clint briefly wondered if he should be worried about tongues being bitten through.

"What? What did you want? To kill yourself?" Clint demanded, breathing hard in exertion as he tried to lift Bucky's heavy metal arm to take off the shirt. Finally, he got the shirt free from Bucky's head and got into a better position to haul Bucky up to his feet. Bucky staggered under his own weight until Clint shoved him against the wall, pinning him there with one hand, while the other started unbuckling Bucky's belt and drenched jeans.

"I w-w-wanted t-to forget." Bucky gasped out haltingly as Clint shoved his pants down and bent over to pull his foot out of the pant leg. Bucky's underwear came down as well, stuck to the pants.

"Brilliant fucking plan there, dumbass." Clint snapped, anger showing through. He was surprising himself with how much emotion he was feeling, but he didn't have the time to parse through that right now. He finally pulled Bucky's other foot through, and then Bucky stood there, buck-ass naked and trembling like a newborn foal.

Clint maneuvered the two of them until he was supporting Bucky on the right side. When they took a first step, however, Bucky tilted to the left and almost pulled them over before Clint did some quick shifting and pinned him back against the wall. Clint took a look and realized that Bucky didn't seem to be in control of his metal arm at the moment, and was just letting it hang in all its heavy weight. So Clint took a deep breath and switched sides, gritting his teeth when he lifted the cold metal and swung it around his shoulders, pulling Bucky into his side to hold on to him.

This position seemed to help Bucky as they made it out of the shower. Clint guided Bucky to sit on the toilet, and made sure he was stable before turning around to grab a few towels. Bucky's shivering wasn't letting up, even as Clint wrapped the towels around him tight.

"Jarvis, could you please raise the temperature in here and in the bedroom?" Clint asked as he rubbed Bucky's arms and shoulders. Vaguely, he wondered why he was rubbing the left arm, since it was just metal, but he just kept doing it.

Clint realized that Bucky was staring intently at him, despite his chattering teeth and tremors.

"What's up?" Clint asked, feeling the temperature rise as the heaters kicked in.

"I-I, d-d-don't have, have to th-think, or re-remem- remember if I'm f-frozen." Bucky managed, looking like a rag doll as he shook in Clint arms. Clint held eye contact with Bucky at that. Bucky seemed insistent to explain himself to Clint, though, as he opened his mouth to keep talking, "I j-just w-w-wanted some of th-that pe, peace ba-back. J-just for a little w-while."

Clint's heart dropped as he saw Bucky's earnest face and heard those vulnerable words. He instinctively knew that Bucky had never said that to anyone before, and the trust he felt from Bucky hit him like a punch to the gut.

"Hey, it's okay." Clint said, feeling awkward, and not knowing what to say. "Let's just get you warmed up and in bed, alright?" Bucky nodded numbly and let himself be pulled to his feet as Clint bore the weight of the metal arm plus Bucky's body weight.

They slowly staggered through the bathroom and out into the bedroom where he led Bucky to the bed, helping him to sit down. Bucky went willingly, still shivering, but noticeably less than before. Clint simply took the towels and finished drying Bucky before pushing him gently down onto the bed and throwing the towels on the floor, replacing them with the sheets and comforter of the bed. 

Bucky gave out a little whimper when the warm sheets covered him, and Clint felt bad for him, hoping that the change in temperature wouldn't be severe enough to cause him to go into shock. Clint went back to rubbing Bucky's body up and down, trying to get the circulation running.

As he was rubbing Bucky's chest, Clint noticed that he himself was pretty soaked from everything that had happened, so he stripped off his shirt and threw it on top of the towels. Goosebumps rose up all along his arms as the warm air touched him, but Clint pushed it out of mind, focusing on Bucky.

Bucky seemed to be doing much better, shivering less and breathing less raggedly. His eyes were still too wide, and he was still staring intently at Clint; Clint had the feeling that Bucky was staring at him simply because he was there, and it would take too much energy and movement to look at something else. Bucky had some strands of hair plastered against his face, while the rest was scrunched up beneath his head, and Clint wondered if the wet feeling against the pillow was uncomfortable.

After endless minutes, Bucky's shivering finally died down as the warm blankets and air worked to bring his body temperature back to normal. With the warm temperature, Bucky's eyes started drooping as his tired and taxed body started unwinding from its tense ordeal. But then Bucky started fighting to keep his eyes open, struggling to stay awake.

"Clint?" His voice was soft and hesitant, and Clint wondered if Bucky's metal arm was still cold, or if it had warmed to the same temperature as the rest of his body.

"Yeah, man?" Clint matched the soft pitch, not wanting to be loud in the room, even though no one else was there.

"Please don't tell Steve?"

Clint was thrown by this request, but that didn't stop him from immediately promising, "Hey, you know I won't tell him. I got your back."

Bucky's eyes widened a little bit before he nodded solemnly. His eyes started threatening to close again.

Clint was just wondering about what he should do next when Bucky mumbled, "You don't have to be here anymore, you know." His eyes slipped closed and his breathing started evening out.

Clint watched his face, and noticed a drop of water run from his damp hair down to his neck and Clint suddenly had the urge to push his long hair out of his face. Curling his fingers into fists so that he didn't do something stupidly irrational, Clint carefully stood up and with a last glance at Bucky's sleeping form, he left, feeling awkward about leaving Bucky alone, but not knowing what else to do.

*

Weirdly enough, nothing really changed after that episode. They went on about their lives in the same companionable silence and secret acknowledgment of each other as if nothing ever happened, and Clint realized that their thing, whatever it was, worked because they'd had no standards or expectations of the other. And yet, they really understood how the other dealt with their trauma, and there was no need to pester the other with needless words like the other Avengers constantly did.

Clint found that he was at his most calm, and relative happiness, when he was with Bucky. There was just something about the other man that settled Clint in ways he hadn't felt since before….before the battle. The whole idea of it would strike him as unusual, but like always, instead of trying to dissect it, Clint just gave up on trying to make sense of it.

He still had flashbacks, and he knew that Bucky still had his, but when they were together, everything melted away to the background, and they never seemed to have a problem holding on to their sanity and the present. It was only when they were separate, that their flashbacks seemed to win the fight.

That was one thing that Clint found morbidly amusing, the main difference between the two of them; while Clint's flashbacks tended to turn into panic attacks and violence, Bucky's almost always shut him down into a catatonic state where nothing could pull him from his unresponsive stupor. They'd both seen each other at their worst by now, and it seemed that because of that, they somehow were able to bond over it.

Clint laughed to himself. How fucked up were they, that the two most fucked-up people in the tower could only be a little less fucked-up when they were together? Clint knew that the world worked in mysterious ways and all, but that was some weird shit.

*

"How did you even find this place?" Clint asked one day when they were sitting in the library, enclosed by the privacy of their little hideaway. He kept talking, theorizing, "I mean, if this was built on purpose, someone had to have created it, or at least seen the blueprints."

Bucky wrapped himself tighter in one of the blankets he had claimed for the day and smiled softly, "Pepper came to me one day. I didn't talk to her, couldn't, really, but she didn't seem to mind. She told me that if I ever needed a place to hide for a while, that she knew of many places that she could offer me." Bucky grew quiet as he remembered,

Clint liked the idea of Pepper being able to see clearly how some people just needed to get away for a little bit.

"I think she just wanted to offer an alternative to running away. Not that I'd have anywhere to run to." Bucky said that matter-of-fact, without any bitterness. Clint settled deeper into his bean bag. "But I never could bring myself to ask her. It didn't matter though, because one day I found a note with a handwritten map to here. When I couldn't find it, Jarvis helped me."

"And the bean bags?" Clint asked, curious.

"They kept showing up in my bed." Bucky grinned brilliantly at that. "So I just brought them here."

Clint let himself smile back at that. "Thank god for Pepper."

*

Clint was just trying to look for a DVD, a classic that Bucky might enjoy, when everything went from bad to worse. Clint wasn't paying attention to where he was going, his attention on the DVD shelf on the wall of the living room, when he found himself stubbing his toe on the coffee table. His immediate reaction was to lift his foot in pain, but that action only caused him to trip over the same table, and by then, his balance had been shot, and he went tumbling down, hitting head on the corner of the coffee table. The brilliant pain blooming in his head briefly distracted him from the fact that he'd also managed to accidentally hit the remote on his way down, and as he started to open his eyes, blinking the pain away, he looked at the TV and saw blue.

The TV was only stuck on the blue screen, the normal, stupid blue screen, but the hue was too close to a different blue, and suddenly it was too much, the accumulation of everything, the blue, the pain of injuries and the headache, all worked together to completely set Clint off the rails in record time.

Clint found that he couldn't breathe, he couldn't see anything but blue, and he couldn't move, he couldn't escape, so he tried his best to struggle, kicking out and feeling pain blossom in his hands and legs from where he made contact with something hard. Clint couldn't see, couldn't tell what he was hitting, only knowing that he had to get out of here, he had to break free, he couldn't be here anymore, couldn't do this, and he wanted to scream, he tried to scream, but he couldn't hear anything even though his throat felt like it was ripping apart.

Clint thrashed, and begged, and screamed and cried, and still couldn't get away, couldn't get out from under that oppressive blue, and he could hear laughter, shrill and ringing in his ears, and he could hear _him_ and his cruel, low orders, and Clint didn't want to do it, didn't want to, but he couldn't stop himself, and he couldn't make himself stop, even though he was trying, he was screaming, he was fighting, but he was losing, he was losing, he was always _losing_ , and he couldn't breathe, there was a weight on his chest, pinning him down, and he couldn't fight anymore, it wouldn't let him, he was trapped again, trapped forever, and he couldn't see, but he could feel, he could _feel_ everything, his hands were worthless, trapped above his head, metal crushing his wrists together, and his legs were useless, pinned down, all of him pinned down, he couldn't escape, he couldn't breathe, he couldn't fight, he was _losing_ , and _he_ was winning, _he_ was laughing and smiling and _he_ was enjoying this and he couldn't get away, couldn't breathe, couldn't move, couldn't win, and-

"-tomatoes, though I prefer them raw. I don't understand what the appeal of them cooked is, it just loses the good flavor, and-"

Clint was still trying to struggle, get away from _him_ get away from _him_ , move, do something, stop losing, just,-

"-unless it's too watery, and then you've just messed up the whole thing. You can try and salvage it by adding a bit more cream, but if that doesn't work, then it's a bit hopeless, though,-"

Hopeless, Clint was hopeless and helpless and he couldn't do it, couldn't fight anymore, but he had to fight, he couldn't let _him_ win, but he didn't have a choice, he was too weak, too tired, too worthless to keep,-

"-let it simmer for about ten minutes. You can check on the bread while you wait, because you really don't want that to dry out. After about ten minutes, you can,-"

Bread?

"-take out the pasta and drain it, let it cool down for a little bit, and you can stir the sauce in the meantime. Once you're sure the sauce is,-"

Pasta? Sauce? Wait, where was he, he was drowning, but he wasn't. Where was _he_ and the echo of _his_ laughter in his ears?

"-pour it over the pasta in the pot and stir it, and make sure that it's really mixed in there. I like to pour in extra cheese, too,-"

Breathe. He could breathe. Deep, harsh breaths, but it wasn't oppressive. And the rushing sound in his ears was dying out, he couldn't hear _him_ anymore. Clint blinked furiously, trying to get rid of the blue haze that clouded his vision, and for once, he was doing something. He was listening and he was seeing and,-

"-and then you take out the bread. You can put some cheese on there too, just for shits and giggles, and then you serve yourself a good plate of the pasta, throw a piece of bread in there and eat your fucking meal."

Clint blinked and looked up. He was disoriented and dizzy, but he made out Bucky's face above his. What was Bucky doing here?

"Bucky?" Clint croaked out. He was so confused, and he still couldn't really move, but it suddenly didn't seem as urgent a problem as before.

"And that's how you make a killer pasta dish." Bucky said, mouth twitching upwards in a kind of smirk.

Clint took a deep breath, reveling in the fact that he _could_ , and slowly, he started to assess himself. He was lying on the floor, in the living room, next to the coffee table. He was shimmering with sweat, and his face felt wet. He had Bucky literally on top of him, with his metal arm reaching above Clint's head to pin down Clint's still-struggling arms. Bucky's full body weight was resting comfortably on top of Clint's lower body, on his thighs and hips, effectively keeping Clint from kicking out.

Bucky was warm.

Clint kept trying to sift through what just happened. It was obvious he just had a panic attack, but he didn't come out of it feeling the typical drowsiness of having been sedated. He was alert and aware, and Clint realized that Bucky had just literally talked him out of a flashback.

But it hadn't been the frantic, pleading that the other's had done in the past. This had been conversational, mundane and casual. The non sequitor tangents had worked to ground Clint, to make him find himself again, and forced him to come back to the present without the aid of a sedative. Just Bucky's voice.

And body, Clint thought as he felt Bucky's sure hands and thighs successfully holding him down.

Clint groaned when a fresh wave of pain washed through his head and he remembered he had hit his head when he had fallen. "You have some killer thighs, Barnes."

Bucky rolled his eyes, but his smirk slowly spread to a smile. Clint only realized that he had calmed down completely when Bucky relaxed his grip on Clint's wrists and leaned back, and Clint didn't surge upwards. In fact, Clint almost missed Bucky's weight immediately, which just served to confuse Clint even more.

Clint wanted to ask how it came to be that Bucky was the one who had found him, but Bucky seemed to understand his curiosity without having to say it out loud.

"I was walking down the hallway, on my way to the kitchen when I heard you scream. I ran in, and you were screaming and flailing around the place, really hurting yourself, so I had to incapacitate you somehow. Apparently you're no match for a metal arm." Bucky smirked again at that and he offered his metal hand to Clint, who took it and let himself be pulled up. The sudden head rush, combined with the existing headache, made Clint wobble dangerously, but Bucky's grip on him didn't let him fall over.

"We need to get those cuts looked at, and make sure you didn't break anything." Bucky commented as he started to lead Clint out of the room. It was slow going, as Clint was still unsteady on his feet. His head was still swimming, and at Bucky's words, Clint started feeling bruises forming all over his body, particularly his hands and legs and feet. He also felt the wet, sticky feeling that meant he was bleeding from not only his head, but in other sore places as well.

Bucky directed him towards the  kitchen, where Clint sat down gratefully on a chair. The world was still spinning a bit, but at least he didn't feel like he about to fall off anymore.

Bucky was suddenly in his face, kneeling on the floor with the first aid propped open against the table. "You've got a nasty cut on your head here," Bucky traced the wound very tenderly, careful not to jar Clint, "but it doesn't look like a deep scratch. I think it's just bleeding more than it's worth."

Bucky then became silent as he went about disinfecting and cleaning the scratches and cuts all around Clint. He bandaged the ones that needed a little bit more help, but overall, Clint was okay. He had several scratches all along his arms and legs, with some deeper, bleeding cuts on his hands.

While Bucky cleaned Clint up, Clint's headache started easing up, and he was able to think about how Bucky just did something unbelievable.

"You brought me back from a flashback." Clint stated, awe coloring his voice.

Bucky glanced up, arching an eyebrow. "Yeah?"

"No one's ever done that before…they've always just kinda, knocked me out." Clint didn't understand why Bucky wasn't reacting more to this revelation.

"Yeah, I don't think knocking out someone in the middle of a panic attack is the best way to cure them." Bucky commented with a bitter snort of laughter.

Bucky was just wrapping a nasty bruise that was forming on Clint's wrist when Clint insisted, "But no one's ever done that. None of my friends have ever…" Clint cut himself off as a realization started to dawn on him. "Until you." He blurted out. "You're the only friend who's done it. You're a friend." Clint couldn't believe that he had never actually realized that fact before.

Of _course_ Bucky was his friend.

Bucky just finished wrapping the wrist, and then looked up at him with an amused look on his face. "Yeah, duh."

*

Clint spontaneously decided to ask Bucky to spar with him one day.

Bucky agreed.

It was the best work out Clint had had in a really long time.

*

Clint had a rough morning session with his therapist, even though he didn't say anything. It was probably because he didn't tune her out the whole time, and actually listened to all the questions she kept asking him. He never answered, like usual, but he couldn't help the way the questions embedded themselves in Clint's mind. He started to actually think of the answers he would give to his therapist, and the fact that he almost did, made him clamp his mouth closed, hard. He didn't want to talk, but he couldn't stop himself from thinking, now. Bruce rode in the car with him this time, and while Clint generally tried to listen to what Bruce said, he couldn't focus on him. Bruce, thankfully, seemed to understand, and he let the rest of the ride back to the tower remain silent.

When they went up to the main floor, Bruce asked, "Is it okay if I head back down to the labs?" _Will you be fine if I leave you by yourself?_ Clint heard, and he wondered how maudlin his expression was to get that reaction from Bruce.

Before he could answer, Bucky seemed to show up out of thin air, and with one look at Clint, Bucky waved Bruce away. "I got this."

Bruce seemed hesitant to leave Clint with Bucky, but whatever it was that he was itching to get back to in his lab seemed to override his reluctance.

"You know where to find me if you guys need anything." Bruce offered, looking directly at Clint. Clint forced a reassuring smile that probably didn't look like anything reassuring, but Bruce accepted it and went back to the elevators.

When he was gone, Bucky offered, "Want a drink?"

Clint only nodded and soon, Bucky had taken him back to the supply closet with the nest with several beers tucked under an arm. Clint jumped over a loveseat, and got himself situated, wrapping a blanket around himself and letting the space do its job of relaxing him.

Bucky tossed over a couple of beers, and Clint grabbed one, popping the cap and taking a long drag of beer. It felt good, and soon, quiet old music started playing from the radio. Clint looked over to see Bucky taking a drink from his own bottle, and Clint let the comfort of the situation settle him.

*

"Are you going to Coulson's birthday party this weekend?" Clint asked, taking a bite of his sandwich. He had brought a few with him, along with some beer, and had offered a share to Bucky. Bucky had accepted and they were both munching on the food in the library, sharing companionable silence before Clint had spoken up.

Bucky looked up and considered him while he took a drink a drink of beer. "I don't know. Are you?"

"I really should go." Clint said, picking at the label on his bottle. Then he gave a huff of laughter, "Surprisingly, I've never missed one of his birthdays. That's impressive, considering our line of work. But it's Coulson. I mean, I want to. I should want to."

Clint took a drink when he stopped talking. Bucky just looked at him pensively.

Clint continued, saying, "I'm most likely going to be miserable," he gave a mischievous grin, "but I might be less miserable if you came with me."

Bucky gave a loud bark of laughter. "You are totally trying to manipulate me into going." He pointed out.

Clint grinned unrepentantly.

Bucky stuck his tongue out to Clint, but then he said, "Yeah, sure. I'll go with you. If only to stop you from blowing up and ruining the whole party."

Clint chuckled and wondered when they'd started being able to joke about their lives like this. He found that he liked it, and wished that everyone else would join in on the fun instead of trying to not offend their 'delicate sensibilities'.

*

It started snowing later that afternoon, and Clint got the impulse to grab Bucky and take him to the roof with him. Bucky started complaining at first, but then he quieted down when Clint led him up the stairs and brought him out to the roof.

It was beautiful.

The sun was setting behind heavy, dark clouds, but it was just enough light left to really illuminate the falling snow. The city lights helped with their bright glow, and it was quiet as the white flurries fell around them. They were high up, and it felt like they were separated from the world below.

Clint vaguely realized that this was the first time he was sharing his own space with Bucky, but he just smiled and figured it was about time.

They watched the snow fall for hours, until their fingers grew too cold and they started shivering in the inadequate clothing they had on. With one last glance at the white expanse of snow, Clint smiled before they had to go inside.

*

Coulson's party came with the threat of the first huge snowstorm of the year.

Clint and Bucky only made it to the party before the storm hit, because they snuck out early in order to avoid having to go in the same car as the others. Natasha, Steve and Bruce all had to stay behind at the tower because the storm came in quickly and made the city grind to a halt.

Tony Stark, Maria Hill, Nick Fury, Jasper Sitwell, Clint and Bucky, and some other SHIELD agents were the only ones able to make it. At first, the atmosphere was super tense and awkward, because Clint was still not quite trusted in SHIELD. He knew that they still blamed him just a bit, for all the destruction of the old helicarrier. He'd been put on forced leave until Fury could figure out what to do with him. He had a feeling that Fury had a mission all picked out and planned for Clint once his therapist gave him a good enough report.

Thankfully, because of Tony, the party got started with a lot of alcohol, and everyone decided to let it go for the night. Tony, being the less careful of all the Avengers, wondered out loud if Bucky could hold his liquor as well as Steve, or if he could get him drunk.

"C'mon, Barnes, we just wanna know if the Russians programmed some metabolism in you or not." Tony got smacked upside the head by Maria at that, and everyone held their breath for a moment, not wanting to hear Bucky's reaction to that, but not willing to look away either.

Bucky simply grinned maniacally and spread his arms wide. "Challenge accepted."

Tony laughed out loud at that and started talking about how proud he was that Bucky was using the 'right lingo' in this modern day and age. He began to mix drinks and pour shots for everyone while lining up Bucky's drink order.

It turned out that Bucky could metabolize alcohol really fast, but, they found out, not as fast as Steve. Because of this, he started getting tipsy, much to the hesitant amusement of everyone else. But then everyone else started drinking, at Tony's insistence and nobody cared anymore about the slightly terrifying innuendos that Bucky would make out of the blue.

When Bucky dared Clint to get drunk with him, both Coulson and Maria were sober enough to voice some tense advice against the idea, but despite their gentle warnings (or rather, in spite of them), Clint agreed.

He progressively got drunk over the course of the night, doing shots with Bucky and Coulson, who was surprisingly a fun drunk. Actually, Clint thought through the haze of alcohol, all of the people here were fun drunks, even Fury, which should have alarmed Clint.

Some of the other SHIELD agents that Clint didn't know that well, bid their goodbyes to Coulson after only a couple of hours, saying that they were going to risk the storm. Even Fury said his goodbyes and wished Coulson a happy birthday before leaving, claiming that his car would be able to handle the storm without a problem. After that, all that were left were people that Clint knew and more or less liked.

Coulson and Tony started telling a story that got out of hand quickly, and each tried to tell their version of the story, but kept getting interrupted by the other. It was all very amusing.

Clint was actually just beginning to enjoy himself when he suddenly started feeling the tell-tale signs of a panic attack beginning. He set down his drink and tried to figure out what had set him off and why, why now? But he didn't get to figure it out before he mumbled something about the bathroom and dashed off towards where he thought the bathroom was.

He heard someone call out, "First door on the right!" and he had enough thought to be grateful that it apparently only seemed like he was about to throw up.

Which, Clint thought bitterly, wasn't unlikely.

He staggered towards what he thought was the right room, and swung the door open. He didn't bother turning on the lights before he was dropping to his knees and down onto his side, curling into himself to stop shaking.

He heard someone come up behind him, but he couldn't form the words to tell the person to go away, or say that he was fine.

It turned out he didn't need to say anything, because the person that was behind him was Bucky, who turned on the light and closed the bathroom door behind him. Clint was focusing on breathing and trying not to think when he suddenly felt his wrists being pulled away from where they were wrapped around his torso. He started protesting and struggling but then he was flipped onto his back, his hands pinned down beside his head, and he had no leverage to pull away.

"Easy, you're okay." He heard Bucky murmur above him. "You're in Coulson's apartment. There's a party out there. Everyone's drinking and drunk, and no one's going to hurt you."

Clint whimpered at a particularly vivid memory of laughter and of sneering and taunting.

"Hey, listen to me, Clint. You're okay, I promise you. He's not here." Clint struggled harder, but Bucky was implacable. "Clint. He's not here. Loki is gone, and he's not coming back. He can't hurt you anymore."

Clint gasped and shuddered at that. The laughter died abruptly in his ears and when Clint blinked again, he saw Bucky, staring down at him with a blank face.

"You're okay, Clint. He's not here."

The grip Bucky had on Clint suddenly felt secure and safe, rather than something to fight, and Clint forced himself to relax in his hold.

"There you go, just breathe." Clint breathed in, and when Bucky breathed out, so did Clint. Clint matched his breaths with Bucky's and when he was sure he wasn't going to go down into a tailspin, Bucky let go of him.

Clint didn't move, even though the floor was cold. He suddenly felt really exhausted, and said so.

"Fuck, I'm tired." Clint mumbled. He was staring at the light fixtures in the ceiling, but when it got too bright, Clint shifted his gaze to stare at the towels on the rack next to the shower.

"I don't blame you. Besides it's getting really late. I don't know how Stark does it."

Clint groaned as he forced himself to sit up. Bucky held out an arm, his flesh one, to steady him, and Clint found himself resting his head against it for a moment.

"Wish I could just stay here." Clint mumbled.

"Would Coulson let you? I mean, the storm's not letting up, so we might not be able to make it back home anyway."

Clint thought about that and nodded, "You're right. We should probably ask though."

Bucky chuckled and helped haul Clint up to his feet. When they came out, they found Coulson sitting at the kitchen bar, talking with Tony.

"Hey, there he is!" Tony crowed, and everyone winced a little at the bright volume in his voice.

"You doing okay?" Coulson asked, eyebrows coming together in worry, but his expression was loose and relaxed compared to his sober self.

"Is it okay if we just crash the night here?" Clint asked, avoiding the question. "It's snowing pretty hard and I don't think we should be driving anyway."

Coulson looked surprised for a moment, and looked out towards his window as if he'd completely forgotten that it was snowing.

Tony spoke up, "Aw, hell no, I'm not staying here. I'm calling up the armor now." He pressed a button on his bracelets, and Clint knew that he was going to be leaving in a few minutes.

Coulson dragged his gaze back to Clint and said, "Yeah, you can crash here." He looked at Bucky and amended, "Both of you can stay. Though you might have to share a bed, since Jasper over there is hogging the couch."

He gestured towards the living room where Maria was literally drawing a penis on Jasper's face. She snapped around when she felt all the attention on her, and she crossed her arms defensively, saying, "What? He should've known better than to be the first one to pass out at a party."

Tony chuckled at that and covered a hand to his chest, saying, "A woman after my own heart."

"Hey, Maria, are you staying?" Coulson called out.

Maria gave a thumbs up and said, "Shotgun on the left side of the bed!" She took off running towards the bedroom, but her balance was shot and she stumbled a few times around the furniture.

Coulson laughed and brought his attention back to the others. At the raised eyebrow of Tony, Coulson explained, "We've slept in worse places together. Sharing a bed really isn't that big of a deal."

He was about to open his mouth to continue, when Tony interrupted, saying, "Well, this has been fun, but my ride is here. Don't get into too much trouble."

With that, Tony saluted sloppily and walked out toward the balcony of the apartment.

"Should you even be driving that thing?" Coulson asked when they saw the suit of armor assemble just outside the glass door that Tony opened, letting in a cold draft that made Jasper mumble in his sleep.

"Psh, Jarvis is more than capable, aren't you, J?" Tony quipped back.

"I have already mapped out an appropriate route back to the tower, sir." Jarvis's metallic voice came out of the speakers in the suit.

Without further ado, Tony shut the glass door behind him as the rest of the armor wrapped itself around him. He took off, a bright light fading fast in the dark, snowing night.

Coulson brought everyone's attention back inside when he said, "Let me show you to the guest room."

Clint followed, feeling weary down to his bones. Bucky seemed to know how tired Clint was feeling, because he was right behind Clint, metal hand placed comfortingly at the small of Clint's back. It wasn't much, but Clint felt supported as Coulson brought them to an empty room with one bed.

It looked exactly like a guest room was supposed to look, with bland furniture, and generic furnishings. It looked impersonal, much like the rest of Coulson's apartment.

"Extra blankets are in that drawer, and towels are in the bathroom under the sink." Coulson explained distractedly. "Well, umm, sleep well." Coulson finished awkwardly before leaving the two of them. He must have been drunker than he was letting on, because he dragged along the wall as he went down the hallway to disappear into his bedroom.

Clint almost immediately crashed into the closest side of the bed, not even bothering to pull down the covers. He kicked off his shoes not caring where they landed. Bucky, on the other hand, must have been more sober than Clint had thought, because he calmly closed the door and walked around the bed, tugging the covers down. He carefully pulled the covers and sheets down where they were trapped under Clint, until Clint got the message and lifted himself slightly to help a bit.

As Bucky started to take off his shoes and get into his side of the bed, Clint spoke up, saying, "I gotta warn you, I tend to kick in my sleep. And fight when I have nightmares. Which is every night."

Bucky pulled the covers up and even helped pull them over Clint, who finally moved over so that he was in a decent position. "I sometimes swing my arm during my nightmares," Bucky retaliated.

Clint stared at Bucky, eyes wide open. "You mean your real arm, right?"

Bucky's expression was unreadable. "Do I?" He then closed his eyes.

Clint felt a little terrified of how either of them were going to survive the night.

*

When Clint woke up in the morning, it was to warmth and a sense of having rested a really long time. He realized that it was due to not having a single nightmare all night, and he couldn't remember the last time that had happened. He hadn't ever felt so calm and safe since long before the battle.

When he shifted, Clint also realized that Bucky had moved over during the night to wrap his metal arm around Clint in a cuddle. It should have been weird and it should have felt uncomfortable, but the arm was warm, and its weight felt good, tucked around Clint. The rest of Bucky's body was pressed against Clint's back, and he just felt enveloped in safety. Like a cocoon.

Clint was content to just lay there, and soon enough he dozed off for a while. He came back to consciousness when he felt Bucky shift behind him and murmur something incomprehensible.

"Shhh, I'm sleeping." Clint whispered as he pressed backwards into Bucky's chest. He briefly wondered if he just made things awkward, but when Bucky hummed, sounding pleased, and tightened his hold on Clint just a fraction, Clint knew that however weird this situation was, they were both in it together.

And neither of them really wanted to move, so they didn't.

They both laid there, enjoying whatever moment they were having. Clint felt so at ease that he never wanted to move, but when his bladder started demanding his attention, Clint groaned at the unfairness of life.

"I really have to pee." Clint mumbled dejectedly, feeling like he just got robbed of something.

Bucky gave a sleepy chuckle and then drew his arm back to let Clint get out of bed. Clint immediately missed the arm, but his bladder was very insistent, so he stumbled out of bed and into the bathroom. He didn't bother closing the door, and soon he was relieving himself.

As he was finishing up, he heard Bucky speak. "That was the first night since I've been unfrozen that I haven't had a nightmare. I actually slept." Clint could hear the amazement in Bucky's voice. "I slept through the whole night. I can't even remember the last time I did that."

"You can't remember a lot of things." Clint pointed out as he washed his hands in the sink.

A laugh, and then, "Touché."

Clint quirked a grin as he dried his hands, and then he was back in the room, standing in front of the bed. "Last night was the first time I slept through the night, also, no nightmares, since…since the battle."

Bucky looked at him curiously at that last part, but he didn't make a comment.

"Also, first time I've woken up somewhere else without having a panic attack." Clint added as an afterthought. Bucky hummed in agreement.

Clint wondered if he was going to start feeling awkward, just standing there, but then he heard Bucky's stomach growl rather spectacularly and that derailed any discomfort. Bucky made an annoyed face that had Clint grinning again.

"Wanna find out what's for breakfast?

It turned out that breakfast was pancakes, bacon, eggs and toast with coffee, and Coulson and Jasper were both at the helm, making all the delicious food. Maria wasn't anywhere to be seen, but Coulson just commented on what a heavy sleeper she was, and that she would come out once the smell of coffee woke her up.

Sure enough, Maria came out, looking rumpled and sleepy, but made a beeline straight for Coulson who was holding her mug of coffee, ready for her.

Breakfast ended up being a really good thing. The atmosphere started off tentatively relaxed until it became comfortable, everyone eating good food and making light conversation. Coulson seemed happy to hear some jokes that Clint cracked.

Clint was amazed by how one night of good sleep could lift his mood so much.

*

Clint woke up screaming in a panic after a horrible nightmare that had seemed endless.

He quickly started mentally cataloguing everything in his room and managed to calm down his initial panic as he reassured himself that he was in the tower and that he was safe.

He was up too early but he didn't want to go back to sleep, so he decided to go to the gym and try to work off the excess adrenaline still coursing through his veins.

The gym was empty, but that didn't surprise Clint, who just walked over to the punching bags and started building a rhythm. It felt good to feel and hear the muted _thump_ of his flesh on the bag.

It wasn't long before Clint heard a noise and turned around to see Bucky, looking haggard and sleep-deprived, watching him from the entrance of the gym.  

"Can't sleep?" Clint called out, turning his attention back to the bag to start punching again. His unwrapped knuckles were sore and bright red, but he couldn't bring himself to stop long enough to wrap them.

He heard Bucky make an agreeing noise over the soft thud of another punch.

Clint kept going, punching harder and harder until he felt hands come to rest on Clint's shoulders. Surprisingly, Clint didn't startle, but rather accepted the pause in his workout, hands resting in front of him on the punching bag.

"You're going to break your fingers like that." Bucky commented, voice pitched low. His hands trailed down Clint's arms to lightly wrap his fingers around Clint's wrists. Clint just watched numbly as Bucky pulled his hands down and away from the punching bag, and suddenly was overcome with the exhaustion of an adrenaline crash.

"I really want to sleep." Clint mumbled, feeling almost desperate. He wanted to sleep, but he couldn't bear to face his memories again.

"Want me to come with you?" Bucky asked quietly from behind him. His fingers were still loosely wrapped around Clint's wrists, and Clint couldn't help but relax into the grip, both warm even though one was metal, but both just as sure in their hold .

If anything, they'd at least have company. Clint was feeling too starved of another human presence to say no to Bucky's offer. Clint could only nod.

Bucky gently led him back to Clint's room, one hand always seeming to be touching Clint's skin, and Clint couldn't even begin to express how grateful he was for that little bit of contact.

When they were in front of Clint's bed, Clint felt self-conscious, but Bucky just unraveled the mess of sheets that had been left from before, and prodded Clint to get in.

It didn't take long before they were both fast asleep, tangled up in each other.

*

Clint couldn't fall asleep. His insomnia and fear of nightmares and memories kept overpowering his mind, and he had just finally resigned to the fact that he wasn't going to sleep tonight, when he heard a light knock at his door.

Clint got up and padded over to the door where he opened it to find Bucky, looking freaked out and nearly in tears.

"Can I-, can I stay here? A bit?" Bucky choked out, sniffling a little while looking down at his bare feet.

"Yeah, man, come in, c'mon." Clint ushered Bucky inside. "I've got you."

He helped Bucky get into his bed and Bucky immediately started clinging to Clint who ended up sitting up, leaning against the headboard. "Hey, it's okay. I'll keep watch, 'kay?" Clint promised as he brought his hand up to card his fingers through Bucky's long, tangled hair. He took his time in sifting through the strands, gently pulling out knots, and then lightly scratching his scalp.

Clint could actually feel the tension bleed out of Bucky as they laid there. Bucky sniffled less and less until he was breathing steadily and his grip on Clint loosened. Clint just kept finger-brushing his hair absentmindedly, easier to do once all the tangles were pulled free.

"Tha' feels good." Bucky slurred, the sound muffled because his face was smushed into Clint's stomach. "Haven' had anyone do tha' to me in a long time." Bucky sighed deeply, and between one breath and the next, he was asleep, head lolling heavily against Clint's stomach.

Clint spent the night awake, but he didn't feel tired. He found it peaceful to watch the way Bucky's back rose and fell with each breath he took.

*

Eventually, Clint accepted the fact that the best nights, the ones where he actually slept, were when he was with Bucky. Bucky, apparently came to the same conclusion, because they started sleeping together at night more and more often.

It became a sort of routine, where Clint would wait until Bucky showed up at his door, to start getting ready for bed. More and more of Bucky's things started to show up in Clint's room, too; his toothbrush and tooth paste found a home next to Clint's, a bottle of conditioner appeared next to Clint's shampoo, and an old, portable radio popped up on the nightstand.

Clint wondered if he should make a comment about the slow invasion, but then he realized he didn't actually care. He liked waking up and not only seeing Bucky in his bed, but all of the scattered possessions that Bucky had deemed worthy to bring to his room.

It felt good, it felt _safe_ , and when Clint brought it up to Bucky one night, Bucky's expression turned smug as he said, "Well, duh. We're each others' 'safe place.'" He used air quotes and grinned, causing Clint to smile back and bury his face closer into Bucky's chest. It was _comfortable_.

It felt pretty fucking good, Clint thought, to be near someone who didn't expect anyone to have to fulfill any exhausting hopes.

*

They were both eating breakfast with Steve, Natasha and Bruce, when Tony came swaggering in. It was obvious that he'd been up all night in his lab, by the rate that he inhaled coffee before even making eye contact with anyone else.

Steve offered to make Tony some pancakes, and Tony just looked at him blank-faced for a solid minute before eventually accepting.

Bucky snorted a laugh at that, and continued his own task of covering his entire plate with syrup, making sure to drown every inch. He had made a comment one day about how he remembered that they could never afford to buy real maple syrup when they lived in Brooklyn, and how he loved not having to eat dry waffles and pancakes anymore. Steve then made it his personal mission to buy and stock as many bottles of maple syrup that he could find as some sort of positive reinforcement for Bucky remembering things.

Clint could relate, because growing up, he never had enough money for the sugary sweet stuff. That was why he slathered his breakfast liberally with whatever was at hand, regardless of the flavors.

Clint was brought out of his thoughts when he felt Tony's eyes on him. He looked up, and sure enough, Tony was looking between Bucky and Clint, an intense expression on his face.

"How long have you two been dating?" Tony asked, pointblank.

Clint and Bucky froze, and they heard Steve start coughing into his coffee. Even Bruce was visibly startled and dropped his utensils on his plate. Natasha was the only one that seemed unaffected.

"Excuse me?" Clint got out when he could find the words.

"Oh, c'mon, don't tell me you're going to deny it. You guys are obviously involved with each other. I don't think Barnes has been sleeping in his room for weeks now." Tony stated matter-of-factly.

Clint opened his mouth to rebuke Tony, but then he found he couldn't think of what to say.

Tony wasn't wrong; now that Clint thought about it, he realized that yes, he and Bucky have essentially been dating each other. Bucky seemed to have realized this possibility at the same time as Clint and he was stuck staring at Clint. His expression looked slightly alarmed, and Clint could tell that Bucky wanted him to say something.

The fact that Clint knew what Bucky wanted without having to say word seemed to cement the fact that yes, they really _have_ been dating without knowing it.

Tony kept barreling on, though, once Steve seemed steady enough to inhale air instead of liquid. "I mean, congratulations, we're all proud of you and are happy for you. There's just no need to go tiptoeing around us anymore."

"We haven't-, we didn't-," Clint tried, but then Bruce interrupted.

"It's fine, really. We've all seen how less tense and strung out you've been. Both of you." He gestured to the both of them, and Clint realized just how close he was sitting to Bucky.

Steve spoke up after clearing his voice, "You guys talk more now, and seem to be doing better."

Clint didn't have an answer for that. Apparently neither did Bucky.

Natasha saved them the trouble, by giving them a smile and saying, "It's good to see you guys smile again. Even if it's only now and then."

*

After that confrontation, Clint and Bucky realized that not only were the others really perspective, but that they hadn't been treating them as fragile things in the past few weeks. They started listing all the times that now, in retrospect, they realized that they'd been left to their own devices. The others had been letting them do their own thing and didn't hound them about it as much as they used to. The two of them also had stopped getting as many suspicious and concerned looks as before.

Because of this grand revelation, Clint and Bucky mutually decided that they would make a better effort at _Game Night_ and dinners.

It felt good to see the happy expressions on the others when they volunteered to make dinner one night. Together.

*

Bucky officially moved into Clint's room after that, and everyone seemed to be in high spirits that night. Clint didn't feel an inkling of panic the whole night. He knew he was safe with everyone here. Bucky's hand resting on his thigh was the most natural thing Clint could think of.

*

Clint and Bucky had always ignored each other's morning wood, if the other ever had one. It wasn't a frequent thing, because neither of them had had a particularly high sex drive in a really long while. But sometimes, Clint would wake up feeling Bucky against his thigh, or with him pressing against Bucky's ass. They never made a mention of it; they just turned around and went back to sleep.

But when Clint woke up one morning to feel Bucky's erection nestled against his ass, he didn't think about it when he sleepily rolled his hips just right. Clint froze and was suddenly very awake when he heard Bucky moan in his sleep.

The sound went straight to Clint's newly interested cock, and Clint realized that he was actually turned on.

Clint very deliberately rolled his hips again, and he had to stifle a moan of his own when it felt so good. His cock filled out so fast that he almost felt dizzy. He hadn't felt like this in much longer than Clint cared to remember.

A third time of rolling his hips seemed to be enough to make Bucky wake up and automatically push against Clint's ass, making them both moan in unison at the implications of the movement.

"Hmm, good morning to you too." Bucky's voice was pitched low and sounded sleep-hoarse. Clint pressed back to try and hear that sound again and was rewarded with a rough groan and a hand slipping up to grip Clint's hips for better purchase. 

Clint gave a gasp when Bucky pulled him back while rutting against him at the same time. Bucky must have been as turned on as Clint was, because the next moment Bucky rolled Clint over onto his back and swung a leg over to pin Clint down. Clint gasped again and instinctively let his hands fall to the sides where Bucky then grabbed him by the wrists and dragged his arms above Clint head. The new position rubbed their clothed erections against each other and Clint couldn't help the whimper that escaped him as he arched his back, unconsciously trying to press even closer. Having Clint's hands secured tightly above him, with Bucky's weight overpowering him was doing something to Clint and he couldn't help let out another whimper as his cock twitched and hardened even more.

Bucky, however, stilled immediately and pulled back enough so that they weren't pressed along each other anymore. The sudden stop made Clint's head spin a little in confusion.

"Did I hurt you? Are you okay?" Bucky asked, worry coloring his tone.

Clint blinked up at him and tried to understand what just happened. "What? No, I'm fine. That was,-" Clint licked his lips, "that was good. Really good." Clint looked pointedly down at his cock that was tenting his boxers.

Bucky looked sheepish at that, but asked, "So I'm doing this right? I'm not fucking it up?" His voice was so small and uncertain, and Clint was beyond confused.

"What?"

"I just-, I've just never, umm, done… this," Bucky gestured between the two of them, "before. With another man." He clarified, and everything snapped into focus as understanding dawned on Clint.

"I, uh, I've never done this either. With another guy, I mean." Clint admitted. "But I think we were on the right track?"

He offered a smile, and it worked to ease Bucky who grinned back. "I haven't done this in over seventy years." Bucky said, very slowly and very deliberately rolling his hips as he leaned back down.

Clint groaned and reached up to grip Bucky's shoulders, his fingers slipping a little on the metal. "You win, buddy."

Bucky chuckled and then bent his head down to hover right over Clint's face. Clint could see a soft blush coloring Bucky's cheeks as he whispered, "Can my prize be a kiss?"

His lips were mere inches above Clint's and he could feel Bucky's warm breath on his face. He very much wanted to close the gap between them, so he did. Bucky was warm and soft against his lips, and Clint easily opened up to him when he started exploring. It was slow and so, so good. Clint felt light and happy, like he was right where he belonged.

When they parted, Clint whispered back, "You can have anything you want." Bucky's eyes darkened and Clint felt him twitch against his thigh. Bucky darted down to kiss him again, hungry and desperate this time as his hands started touching Clint everywhere.

Clint's legs fell open of their own accord, and Bucky fit in the space between them so perfectly. Clint tried to touch everywhere too, but Bucky's shirt kept getting in the way so he growled and tugged on the offending clothing until, between the two them, they were able to get rid of it. Suddenly, Clint had a whole new expanse of skin to work with, and he immediately started touching everywhere, fingers skimming across everything he could reach. It felt new and exciting, having this sudden permission to just _feel_ everything.

Bucky seemed to enjoy the attention, but he soon got frustrated with Clint's shirt as well, and before long they were both touching bare skin and pressing against each other. Each brush of skin on skin felt electrifying and Clint couldn't help but arch up to feel more. Clint's hands traveled lower and lower until he was palming Bucky's ass and encouraging him to move against Clint more. Without thinking, Clint lifted his legs and wrapped them around Bucky's waist, feeling their cocks rub against each other and gasping at the closeness.

Bucky left trailing kisses all along Clint's neck and down what he could reach of Clint's chest. He shifted to the side slightly, putting his weight on the metal arm so that he could sneak his flesh one down in between them. Clint moaned when Bucky tugged down his boxers, freeing his cock and letting it slap against Bucky's stomach. The new surface made Clint mindlessly thrust upwards a couple of times before he snuck a hand down between them too and pulled down Bucky's boxers as well. The touch of Bucky's bare cock against Clint's was foreign and different, but felt amazing. It felt even better when Clint wrapped a hand around the both of them and gave them a sure, slow stroke up both their cocks.

Bucky gave a helpless whimper at that, while Clint moaned in return. Bucky twitched in his hand as Clint gave another stroke, making sure to brush his thumb over the crowns of their erections. Bucky wrapped his free hand around Clint's and they both started jacking themselves off, each stroke causing them to involuntarily jerk into their combined grip. Clint had never felt like this before, so close and so complete with another person.  

"Clint…" Bucky breathed, leaning down to press more kisses along Clint's neck. Clint tipped his head back to give him more room to work with, and whimpered when Bucky gave a playful nip, teeth scraping over the spot.

"I'm not going to… going to last long," Clint panted, legs trembling as he held on desperately. Bucky's response was to urge their hands to move faster and tighter and Clint shuddered at the change of pace.

"Look at me." Bucky pleaded, thrusting reflexively on a particularly hard stroke. Clint immediately locked eyes with Bucky, and he could see how utterly beautiful Bucky was.

Bucky's face was open and bare to Clint, every emotion clear and every reaction truthful. Clint couldn't look away if he wanted to, and suddenly he was coming, hips jerking up into his own hand and into Bucky's. Bucky thrust once, twice, and then he was coming too, hand still stroking them both to prolong their orgasms.    

Bucky dropped down and to the side slightly, face buried against Clint's neck and they both laid there, catching their breaths. Bucky's hand twisted slightly and then they were holding hands, heedless of the sticky mess covering them.

Through his heavy breathing, Clint started laughing. He laughed, and it felt good to laugh so freely and carelessly. Bucky craned his neck to look up at Clint, and Clint laughed some more. Bucky grinned in response and soon he was laughing with him.

"That was fucking amazing." Clint choked out in between breaths.

"Best sex I've had all year." Bucky gasped out in between bright peals of laughter. Clint laughed even harder and pressed his forehead against Bucky's, shaking with mirth.

"I damn well hope so." Clint joked breathlessly.

"This is so gross." Bucky complained in an amused tone, swiping their joined hands through their shared mess.

Clint groaned in disgust at the sticky, wet feeling. He then asked roguishly, "What are your thoughts on showering together?"

Bucky tipped his head back so that he could see Clint better, and with a smirk said, "I don't know, but we should find out."

It turned out that Bucky was quite fond of showering together.

*

"Good morning, Clint. How are you feeling today?" His therapist always greeted him in the same cheerful way, despite the fact that he never once spoke a word to her.

"Pretty good, actually." Clint responded, grinning when he saw the surprised look on her face. Sara, he thought. Her name was Sara.

Sara was really good at her job, though, because she immediately schooled her expression into a professional one and asked, "And why is that?"

Clint thought back to how just that morning he had been on his knees, learning how to take Bucky down his throat without choking. He thought back to the previous night, and how he had joined in the teasing and playful yelling as everyone slowly realized just how twisted a sense of humor they all had while playing _Cards Against Humanity_. He thought back to the outing he and Bucky had, just the day before, when they took Steve and Natasha to the Met and then Central Park. He thought back to how Bucky had been there on the range as encouragement and support, for when Clint shot an arrow for the first time since the Battle of New York. He thought back to how he had finally whispered _his_ name, _Loki_ , to Bucky as he was held tight and safe, knowing he was okay and that he wasn't going to get hurt again. He thought back to how he hadn't had a nightmare in over two weeks or a panic attack in over three. He thought back to the quiet moments in the library, or in the nest in the stolen room or on the roof, and how just being in the same place as Bucky seemed to work to ease Clint. He thought back to how Bucky didn't check out as often anymore, and how fast he came back to Clint when he did. He thought back to how Natasha was able to joke and talk to Clint again, like they used to. He thought back to how the little band of misfits called the Avengers somehow became his family.

He thought back to how Bucky had saved him, and how he, in turn, saved Bucky.

Clint looked at Sara and smiled genuinely.

"Let me tell you about it."

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Holidays to everyone, and Merry Christmas to Nonymos! :D


End file.
